


no grandeur here

by wolfsan11



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Homelessness, M/M, Percy Jackson AU, Pining, Slow Burn, Teenaged Sheith, They're kids initially, Update as I go, hints of old trauma, ish, some Fluff later, the others will eventually show up as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfsan11/pseuds/wolfsan11
Summary: “Choose.”“ . . . I can’t.”“You think this a joke? I said, choose.”“I told you, I can’t! I-I shouldn’t have done this, he trusts me—”“Him, then.”“What? No. NO!”-They meet on a cold, dreary day, in the midst of an angry thunderstorm that had spun up from nowhere.On hindsight, that should have been the biggest clue.





	no grandeur here

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm trying something new, in that I don't actually have all of this planned out. I do have a few points sketched out for a certain end point but the rest is up in the air. Accordingly, I may be a little slow on updates but will try my best to hash it out quickly.
> 
> Originally meant for the Sheith Positivity week, Thunderstorm prompt. It became something else entirely haha. Hope you enjoy where I take this!

They meet on a cold, dreary day, in the midst of an angry thunderstorm that had spun up from nowhere.

On hindsight, that should have been the biggest clue.

 

* * *

 

The streets are lined with the usual array of abandoned cars, gutters clogged with trash and debris till the rainwater spills right back out and floods the roads. An unforgiving wind whips up hats and slices through thin clothes, not sparing even a ghost of warmth for those unfortunate enough to be caught out in the rain.

Keith is very aware that people think him one of those unfortunates.

At first glance, this is what they see: a child barely in his teens, wracked by shivers, huddled into a waterlogged jacket several sizes too large, emitting an untouchable aura of  _ do-not-approach _ . He’s clearly in no hurry to head home, even as the clouds swirl into a dense net of darkness with the promise of more rains to come. Head down, hands in pockets, glare firmly in place; he’s the poster child of delinquency, perhaps, or a boy who’s received the short end of the stick.

People are always so very eager to judge his circumstances; to know, and sympathise, or pretend that they do. The questions are always there, brimming with what he supposes is concern.

It’s the ambling gait and the hesitant shuffle of his feet that serve to give him away, when anyone cares to notice.

But they rarely engage him; Keith doesn’t let them. And on the rare occasion that they do?

Well, he has a solution for that too.

So it is, for no reason he can possibly fathom, that he does what he does.

It happens as he’s passing the mouth of an alley, laser gaze focus on the floor and the smack of his ratty shoes on wet pavement. There’s a sudden flicker of light that throws a splash of blue over the brick wall. He waits, but there’s no roll of thunder to accompany it.

He pauses, blinking, and turns to look. His attention catches on a figure huddled against the side of a dumpster, just feet away from where he stands. Blue electricity arcs over the trembling body, and Keith has never seen a stranger sight.

No, scratch that. He has definitely seen stranger sights.

Maybe that’s why he’s so unaffected by what is clearly an unnatural phenomenon. Maybe that’s what prompts him to scoot forward, slowing his pace further as he approaches the person. His hair drips into his eyes and, not for the first time, he wishes he had a hoodie—a pointless hope, because he knows he’ll never swap out his favourite red jacket for anything, but the thought is still nice to entertain.

The person—a boy, Keith realises—hasn’t moved from his spot at all, hunched over his knees with his arms covering his head. Keith feels his gut clench as he takes one step closer until he’s an arms-length away. The boy goes still, shaking coming to a stop as he registers Keith’s presence.

His head snaps up and Keith jumps back in surprise when thunder finally rumbles overhead, the sky lighting up with a tremendous flash of lightning. Keith blinks away a film of bright spots and nearly flinches when he finds the boy staring right at him, eyes dark and piercing. Tufts of wet hair lay flat over a bruised forehead, nose painted across with a ragged, rather fresh-looking cut. Whatever blood there had been seems to have been washed away in the rain, leaving its legacy in the boy’s pink-stained collar.

He looks hardly a few years older than Keith. Fifteen. Sixteen, maybe.

Keith is so focused on the boy’s face, he almost doesn’t notice when the blue shocks spiralling over his body die down. He holds his breath as they stare at one another, but the boy doesn’t make a move, staying completely still.

The first step is left to him then.

Keith slowly settles himself into a crouch, hooking his arms over his knees the way he’d seen the men down at the docks do, as they’d awaited the fishing yachts’ return. That had been years back, when he and his father had still lived in a shack at the edge of a coastline that he can barely remember.

That was before his father had developed a sudden fear for the waters and moved them away to the bustling city, before he’d started catching sight of shadows that only he could see slinking in the corner of his eyes, before his father had suddenly disappea—

“Are you one of them?”

Keith snaps back to awareness and finds the boy still looking at him. His voice is thick with tears, but he sounds oddly steady for someone who’d been pressed stiff against the wall just moments ago.

“I . . . What? Who?” Keith asks. He’s caught off guard but still tries to inject the same confidence in his voice. He hates wallowing in his memories; they made it harder to sort out the mess of thoughts in his head.

The boy glares at him, setting his clenched fists to the floor like he might be ready to start swinging depending on how Keith answered him.

“If you’re here to kill me, then get on with it!”

Keith stares at him, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into.

“I-I’m not here to kill you,” he mumbles, utterly confused as he rocks back on his heels an inch. He’s met with a scoff, and whatever had compelled him to talk to this boy in the first place, it’s fast retreating. But the boy seems to calm a little as he considers Keith for a moment longer, the silence stretching between them.

“You’re just a kid, huh?” he murmurs, finally. Keith scowls at that, his confusion soured into plain annoyance.

“I’m almost thirteen! And besides, you’re a kid too!”

He receives a scowl in return, the boy’s mouth scrunching up in irritation, before it’s interrupted by his wince. Blood spills from the slash over his nose, dripping down his face and past his jaw. He brings a tentative hand to the wound but hovers over it, not daring to touch.

Keith watches it all with a deep curiousity and not without some disgust, but the boy is ashen-faced and shaking again and that makes him soften a little. Clearly, something had happened.

“Where’re your parents?” he asks quietly, settling his chin on his knees. The response is a blank look, pursed lips parting in hesitance.

“My mother . . .” the boy whispers, and he’s gazing down at his shoes now, fixated on the spatter of raindrops against the pavement. There’s the shattering sound of thunder again, something akin to a stack of bricks being dashed against concrete. Keith doesn’t move. He’s left frozen, watching as grief wells up in the boy’s eyes, as lines deepen in his face and his teeth grind together when no more words will come up for air.

He gets it.

With a sigh, he stands up, grimacing as his wet clothes cling to the parts of him that had been briefly warmed from his position.

“Come on.”

The boy looks up, tears slipping down his wet face.

“W-where to?” he asks, stammering over a hiccup.

“Anything’s better than here,” Keith says with a shrug. He turns around and begins to walk; doesn’t wait to see if he’s being followed.

It takes a few seconds, but there’s a sniff and then soft splashes as footsteps sound behind him. Keith slows down and lets the boy catch up to him.

“I’m Keith,” he offers; a peace treaty for an uneasy alliance.

“ . . . Shiro.”

Keith nods and pretends not to notice when the rains slow, or when the clouds break up and the storm begins to die away, as suddenly as it had appeared. Shiro follows him quietly, and Keith leads him home.


End file.
